


Plastic Screens

by witchtoes



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, another fucking psych ward au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchtoes/pseuds/witchtoes
Summary: Jack’s crooked smile widens impossibly, stretching his whole face. His hands flutter now around Bruce’s throat and his fingers are tapping, scuttling, like spiders or butterflies or maybe they dance with the beat of Bruce’s throbbing heart, maybe that’s what Jack was dancing to all along, wrapped around tight and pressing in.“I think we’re on the brink of something big,” Jack is whispering now. He presses his cheek to Bruce’s and it’s heartbreakingly warm. He’s talking so faint and fast that Bruce needs to strain to hear him. “I think we’re close,” Jack continues, “Something’s gonna crack wide open soon."
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Plastic Screens

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I have this AU in my head where there's no Batman or Joker and instead there's billionaire Bruce and patient Jack. Bruce has trust issues with GPD and Gotham's legal system because of how his parents' murder case was botched, and when he hears some malpractice-y illegal shit might be going down at Arkham (a psych ward for the dangerously mentally ill in this AU, which Bruce is a patron of because idk charity work), he decides to go undercover as a patient and investigate. Along the way, he meets fellow patient Dick, a street kid who took the "not guilty by means of insanity" when he was framed for his parents murder, and Jack, undiagnosable dangerous manic/psychotic/delusional gay clown. Bruce has to navigate the asylum from the inside, and learns that maybe Arkham has even more dark secrets than he first anticipated. Other characters included to varying degrees: Barb, Jason, Ivy, Harley, Dr. Crane, and more. 
> 
> This is a section that would be somewhere in the middle of the entire multi-chapter fic. For context: Jack likes to occasionally sneak out of the asylum at night and frequents a couple sketchy joints for sketchier reasons that may or may not be related to the sketchiest of businesses occurring at the ward. Detective Brucie follows Jack to a club's basement. He gets caught. Fun and manic episodes ensue.
> 
> I just wanted to post it to get it out there. It's kinda junk, I haven't written in a while so I'm kinda rusty. Oh well. Enjoy!
> 
> (The title is a reference to Plastic Screens by WEEKS, which I listened to on repeat while I wrote this.)

Bruce bites his lip against the pinch of the switchblade on his throat. The sharp tip twists against the base of his Adam’s apple and suddenly there’s a wet drip sliding down his neck. It hurts—the blade’s bite—and his throat is so dry, and his skull is throbbing, and he reels when he sees Jack inhale, scenting the metallic tang of blood. Jack’s nose is probably broken and there’s still coke on the rim of his nostril. His lipstick is smeared across and up his cheek. He looks like a whore.

_God_ , Bruce thinks, _look away—for the love of Christ, please look away._

Jack watches the shallow cut on Bruce’s throat, pupils blown wide. He looks hungry and desperate and filthy as the small trickle of blood continues to flow. _He wants this._

“Stay still,” he orders, shifting his weight. He pinches Bruce’s cheek so tight it’ll leave a bruise tomorrow and starts to dig the switchblade in deeper. “This’ll be over quick if you’re good.”

_Shit._

Bruce lurches against the restraints and throws his weight back as hard as possible, away from Jack. Jack stumbles back and the blade falls from his hand, clattering away. The back of Bruce’s chair slams against the ground and his head cracks against the concrete. Bruce groans at the impact, teeth rattling in his skull, and his eyes smart, but he rolls anyway, chair still tied to his arms, and scrambles to get his bearings. He shuffles his feet, working to find purchase and hoist himself up, but Jack is already up—quickly, a leather loafer connects with Bruce’s ribs and presses in with startling force. All the air in Bruce’s lungs leaves.

“Did that make you feel good?” Jack hisses, crunching his heel into Bruce’s side. There’s a dangerous, desperate edge in his voice. “Do you feel better now that you tried that little escapade? I hope it was worth it, Brucie, I really do, because now you’re just gonna be all bruised and battered and not fun at all for me to play with! And that’s really a statement from my heart, the deep depths of my heart, my heart of hearts, because you know I  _ love _ a little rough-housing—but that? That was just stupid.” He kicks the edge of the chair to the side, throwing Bruce on his back again.

Bruce can’t think straight.  _ Jesus _ , he can’t find a way out, and Dick’s still at the party, and—

“I never thought you were stupid, Bruce, you know that?” Jack continues, bending over. He tilts his head, dyed hair in a muss framing his face like a halo from Bruce’s perspective. Jack’s eyes are wide and his brows furrowed. He looks genuinely concerned. This does not ease Bruce.

Abruptly, Jack grabs the sides of the chair and hoists Bruce upright. His face has twisted and now he’s fuming, staring daggers at Bruce.  _ If looks could kill. _

“Really, I always have faith in you. And I know you’ll find a way out of this. It’s your thing, I get that, I won’t impede. But you need to get it  together . I think this Dick kid is throwing you off. Upsetting your groove. I mean, we had a thing going, a  good thing.  Our little dance. Foxtrot. Waltz. Tango. Jitterbug. My jitterbug. You know you are, dear darling Brucie, and you just… you can’t fucking help it, can you? You’ll never drop the act.” Jack twists on his heels. His gaze is focused on Bruce’s, strained and furious, but his feet seem to be acting of their own accord. He steps in time, never looking away,  _ one-two-three, kick-ball-change _ .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce grits out. Jack is usually erratic but there’s something in the way his hand is twitching that’s making Bruce nervous.

Bruce thinks of how Jack looked in the ward yesterday afternoon, in the sun. How he didn’t sit at his favorite table or chair. How he wasn’t wearing his makeup like usual and how his eyes darted around the room, searching for something. Bruce at first thought he was looking for the trap, but maybe… 

Maybe he wasn’t looking for anything at all. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there.

_ Quinn _ .

“Don’t you though, sweet dear?” Jack interrupts Bruce’s train of thought. “I see how you watch me. Dark eyes telling lies? I think not. You’re an open book, Bats, and I am a  _ voracious _ reader.”

“You’ll have to illuminate me then. When it comes to people, I’m illiterate,” Bruce counters.  _ Keep Jack’s focus _ .

“No, sweets, not people—you yourself. I don’t think you’d understand your own emotions if they, well, came up and bonked you on the noggin!” Jack thinks this is very funny and takes a breather to laugh at his own joke.

“I think I understand how I’m feeling right now just perfectly.”

“Are you sure about that, Brucie?” Jack is smiling wider now, giggling erratically as he talks. “I know I’m crazy but there are some things even a blind man can see, and you are about as obvious as a neon sign. But the  _ kid _ ? I never pegged you for the type. Sure, he’s cute, but I’ve always thought you wanted a little more… pizzazz.”

Jack is focusing more now and that’s good. Bruce can keep him together if he plays his cards right.

“Dick is a good friend. We see eye to eye on a lot of things, like how to  _ conduct ourselves professionally _ in group therapy. If that offends you, then I suggest next time the good doctor tells you to sit down, you listen.”

Jack screeches gleefully and claps his hands together. “Yes, give it to me! Read me for filth! I wanna know all the ways I’ve been bothering you lately. Did the incident in the ward upset you yesterday? Don’t like my singing? Or was not having me around this morning even worse? Could it be… you came to the club tonight because you missed me?”

Bruce’s heart is pounding. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why, then?” Jack counters. “Why come here at all?” His eyes are lit up, on fire.

“I have reason to believe—”

“You, do-gooder extraordinaire, rule-follower Bruce, breaking curfew  _ and _ leaving the grounds, all in one night? What could possibly get your panties in a bunch so terribly that you came all this way?”

Bruce just needs him to keep talking, but he’s biting his tongue and his thoughts are churning and he wants to snap at Jack that he’s  _ wrong _ and he doesn’t know the  _ half _ of it and if he could just  _ shut up _ —

“I have a theory, detective,” Jack prances around Bruce’s chair. “ _ Watson, I’ve done it again! _ I think there’s only one connection between my favorite club and my favorite asylum and my favorite man. You know what I think it is? I think it’s  _ me _ , Bruce. I think you’re here for me.” His smile is so wide, it looks like he’s grimacing.

“No, I’m—”

“I think you’re here because you want me and it makes you crazy. C’mon, baby, just say it! I won’t tease you or nothin’. I’ll be sweet if you just admit it, like a good boy. Would you like that? If I rolled over and let you walk all over me? If I let you have me like you want?”

“Stop, that’s—”

“Naughty? Dangerous? Don’t pretend you haven’t thought of it. I remember how you touched me.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Then what was it, Bruce? Just boys being boys? Just a little playing between compatriots? Come, now, I think we’ve discussed honesty enough times in group for it to finally get in to your head—”

“ _ Enough _ !” Bruce barks. His voice is sharp and rings through the basement. “ _ You don’t know the last thing about me _ . You don’t know who I am, or what I think, or what I want, but I’m gonna tell you—I am  _ not _ whatever character you’ve painted of me in your sick, twisted, head. I’m not your  _ compatriot _ , and I do not, nor will I  _ ever _ , want you in  _ any _ way. I’d rather be dead in a ditch than spend another day in the same vicinity as—as a monster like  _ you _ .”

Bruce can hardly believe the words after they’ve fallen from his mouth. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe or blink, just watches Jack. He’s gone still, so still Bruce thinks he looks like a statue of ice.

The basement is quiet. The air has become very, very heavy. 

Jack’s hand twitches again. Very slowly, the corners of his lips twitch up. A smile creeps onto his painted lips. 

“You know how to whistle, don’t you,  _ Steve _ ? You just put your lips together… and blow.”

Without warning, Jack’s focus moves away. He stands rigid, back to Bruce, looking at something not there. His foot starts tapping on his own, moving as if controlled by a ghost like earlier. Bruce keeps himself static, not daring to interrupt whatever moment is about to take place.

Then, Jack begins to dance.

He lets his head loll with the movement, not bothering to keep his frame completely upright. He ponies, then spins and slides away. Silent, concentrating, he breaks into a charleston and circles around the basement, and there’s only the light of a flickering bulb silhouetting his skeletal figure. He’s spindly, thin, and might be considered gangly if he didn’t hold himself so boldly. He’s like a ballerina puppet, held aloft by strings, sweeping his legs around and around and around. 

The dance is erratic; sometimes graceful, sometimes slapstick in its egregiousness. Almost ritualistic. No music, not even from the club upstairs. Just feet and arms and long limbs and Jack’s fingers combing the air, plucking invisible strings and yanking, grasping for substance.

Jack throws his head back. His neck is drinking up the dim light and he swings his arms out as he spins, spins, spins in rhythm to a silent melody, mouth open, hanging wide. His eyes are closed but he’s spotting, whipping around in a circle. He’s lost somewhere far away from the basement and he looks almost reverent.

Bruce watches, skull pounding. He feels drunk. He  _ must _ be drunk.

“Please stop,” he croaks.

Jack opens his eyes and stills. He stares at Bruce with a startled look, as if he forgot about his battered foe still tied to the chair. He blinks twice. Then grins.

“What,” he says slowly, “you didn’t like my Astaire? I thought I was quite good. They used to call me a natural.”

Jack takes a step towards Bruce and punches him square in the face. Fist connects to jaw and teeth bite into inner lip. Jack laughs as he shakes his hand loose.

“You’re psychotic,” Bruce roars as he strains against the chair. “I didn’t like your Astaire, or your Chaplin, or your Keaton, and you know what? I don’t particularly like your  _ Jack _ , either. I’m done with the games.” He spits out a glob of bloody saliva. It hits the floor with a satisfying smack.

Jack howls at this.

“ _ I’m _ psychotic? Brucie, baby, there’s no  _ me _ in this. Us, darling,  _ us _ . You and I are both rats in a trap here. The only difference between you and me is  _ I _ don’t feel guilty anymore.” Jack steps back and shimmies a little, grinning as he does it. “I used to feel so, so guilty, all the time. Ate me alive. Harls would say I probably still do—feel guilty, that is, under all these fleshy layers. Somewhere in here it still eats at me, rots me from the inside out. My wretched core. But the heart can’t take it, y’know? It hurts, it hurts too terribly, to feel guilty all the time about even the most miniscule things, it eats you alive, can’t sleep or eat or fuck or fight—and you know what?”

Jack steps to Bruce again. Their faces are close and Bruce can see the green of Jack’s irises. Or maybe they’re not green at all, but hazel or plain old brown. It’s hard to tell when his head is still spinning and his heart is pounding. He hasn’t gotten over Jack’s display from earlier.

“You know what, Brucie? You know what? You know what I think? You wanna know?” Jack slaps Bruce with surprising force. “Do you know? Huh, do ya?” Another slap, like punctuation. “Do ya, do ya do ya?”  _ Slap, slap, slap _ .

_ Buy Dick more time.  _ That’s what Bruce needs to do. He can keep this up for as long as he needs to. He can keep it up. He  _ has _ to keep it up, but Jack’s driving him insane and he’s overwhelmed with everything happening so fast.

“ _ What _ .” Bruce is grinding his teeth. His face is red and stinging.

Hook, line, sinker. 

Jack’s crooked smile widens impossibly, stretching his whole face. His hands flutter now around Bruce’s throat and his fingers are tapping, scuttling, like spiders or butterflies or maybe they dance with the beat of Bruce’s throbbing heart, maybe that’s what Jack was dancing to all along, but they’re wrapped around tight.

“I think we’re on the brink of something big,” Jack is whispering now. He presses his cheek to Bruce’s and it’s heartbreakingly warm. He’s talking so faint and  _ fast _ that Bruce needs to strain to hear him. “I think we’re close,” Jack continues, “Something’s gonna crack wide open. Harper was right, you know, in  _ Angels _ —Kushner knew what he was talking about. I saw that play once, the first one because there’s actually two if you didn’t know, and I  _ loved _ it. Tony knew, he really got it. Tony understood the edge and how we all walk it and some of us are more in denial than others. Some of us, some of  _ you,  _ you say there’s no edge at all, but see here, Brucie, I know the edge and I love the edge and I dance on it. You let all the guilt roast you alive, which is tooth-achingly sweet and misguided and very honorable and saintlike and that’s why I like you so much. Harper, in the play, she says, ‘Things are collapsing, lies surfacing, systems of defense giving way’ and she was so right... You’re not much of a Harper though, are you, Bruce? Should I call you Roy? Are you a Roy? Liver cancer, ha! Is that your excuse too?”

“You’re off your meds.” Bruce finally says what he’s been thinking, fighting the tremble in his hands.

Joker pulls away and looks at his captive again, smiling still but eyes far, far away. “You are so smart, dear,  _ so _ smart, and I’m  _ so _ proud of you! You can do anything if you put your mind to it! So, so  _ smart _ . You have it all figured out.”

Bruce slams his head into Jack’s. There’s a crunch that feels like Jack’s nose against Bruce’s temple. If it wasn’t broken before, it definitely is now. Jack howls again, a belly full laugh, blood staining his teeth red.

“Who? Who let this happen? Was it Quinn? Tell me!”

“ _ Doctor _ Quinn, and we both know she prefers  _ Harley _ . I prefer ‘Harls’ myself y’know, but—”

“Who, Jack? Who?!”

Jack throws his head back and cackles deep from his belly. His laughs are hearty, deep, wheezing. There are tears in his eyes.

“I don’t think Harls is the problem at Arkham, Brucie, and if you haven’t figured that out yet then, well, by God, maybe you  _ are _ stupid after all!”


End file.
